


The Onion Obviation

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [15]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 10:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten





	The Onion Obviation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [under_my_blue_umbrella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/gifts).



Strike ambled across the park towards where he could see Robin sat on a bench, her red-gold head aflame in the sun. She grinned at him and waved. She was wearing slacks and a blouse and sunglasses, and looked the picture of relaxation. Not for the first time, he thought how being divorced agreed with her. She was blossoming away from Matthew. Strike found himself slowing his steps a little, taking his time making his way towards her so that he might watch her for longer from behind his own sunglasses. She had stretched her legs out and leaned her head back a little, soaking up the sun.

Strike watched, amused, as a passing cyclist turned his head just a little too far to keep her in view and almost wobbled off the path. Robin stretched a little, blissfully unaware of how her blouse pulled taut across her breasts as she did so, engrossed in enjoying the sun.

He finally reached her bench and passed her the carrier bag. Robin thanked him, and dug into it and pulled out the items. A supermarket meal deal each - a sandwich for him, salad for her, a bag of crisps each and a bottle of water. Strike sat down on the bench next to her. A hopeful pigeon wandered towards them.

“No chocolate?”

He grinned at her. “Would have melted before I even got here.”

“True.” Robin opened her salad and found the little plastic fork.

Strike opened his sandwich. “How’s the office?”

“Boring,” Robin said. “Still not really into the systems enough to get a look at the finances. I’ll get there. How’s Sam?”

“Frustrated,” Strike said around a mouthful of sandwich. “One of his contacts has gone to ground, he’s at a dead end till the guy turns up again. He’s still having to buy small quantities of drugs he doesn’t want, which we’re funding. How do you swing that on expenses?”

Robin grinned. “I’m creative,” she said. “And yes, I’m aware of the irony of that statement given that I’m currently investigating financial irregularities. Hey, there’s onion in this salad.”

Strike peered into her dish in consternation. “Is there? Sorry. They didn’t have your usual, I had to guess. Here, pass it over.”

Robin laughed. “Not enough in your sandwich?”

Strike chuckled back at her. “Beef and onion sandwich and cheese and onion crisps, might as well go the whole hog!” he said cheerfully. He opened his sandwich, and Robin picked out her onion piece by piece and added it.

“What on earth possessed you to go full onion?” she asked, glancing at him sideways.

Strike shrugged. “I just felt like it. And I’ve got no more interviews today, only an afternoon at my desk ahead of me.”

Robin nodded. She finished piling her onion into Strike’s sandwich, and he closed it and bit into it. Robin shuddered a little as he crunched enthusiastically. “You’re weird,” she said, smiling.

“Good weird?”

Her smile grew soft, fond. “Yeah. Good weird.”

They ate in companionable silence. The pigeon lurked hopefully, and its lurking attracted others.

“We’d better go before we get mobbed,” Robin said, picking up the carrier bag and collecting up the rubbish to put in it. Strike nodded, adding his crisp packet to the bag. They stood, and he held out his hand for the rubbish.

“I might as well take that if you’re going back to work,” he said.

Robin passed it across. “Thanks,” she said. She hesitated a moment, smiled. “Thank you for coming to meet me, and for bringing me lunch.”

“No problem. I was in the area.” Strike smiled back at her. Brown eyes met blue-grey from behind sunglasses and held for a moment, just as an insect buzzing past took a diving detour somehow into Robin’s hair.

She squeaked and flapped at it. “Is it a wasp? It sounded like a wasp!”

“I don’t think so. Hang on. Here, stop flapping!” Strike rested a hand on her shoulder to still her, and with the other he picked at the insect that was buzzing angrily in her hair. Robin trembled but held still.

“It’s not a wasp, it’s some kind of beetle.”

She relaxed under his hand. “Oh, good,” she said. “I got wasps in my hair when I was little, I was walking under a fruit tree with a friend of Mum’s. She wasn’t very quick to react and I got stung, it really hurt. I had to be brave, too, because Mum wasn’t there. Bit paranoid now.”

Strike barely heard her, mesmerised by the silky feel of her hair in his fingers. He used both hands now, trying to tease apart the silky strands and release the beetle without angering it any further. The auburn tresses were softer than he could possibly have imagined, sliding against each other and across his rough skin. He could smell her, this close, her floral shampoo, a hint of sun cream and hot skin. This close, he could suddenly see a fine scattering of pale freckles across her cheekbone.

Dislodged finally, the beetle flew away, still buzzing.

“There. Gone.” Slowly, reluctantly, Strike removed his fingers from her hair.

As he drew back, he realised she was gazing up at him, and three thoughts entered his head all at once, competing for attention.

The first was that she was so _close_ , just right there, inches from him as he looked down at her. He could still see the freckles dusted across her face.

The second was that she was trembling slightly, her breathing uneven. Was that because of her scare, or because of their proximity? His own heart was hammering in his chest suddenly.

And the third, which suddenly jumped to the forefront of his mind, was how utterly onion-y his mouth and breath must be. This close, she could probably smell it.

Fear of her disgust won out, and he took a hurried step backwards. “Sorry,” he muttered, looking down at the floor.

Flushing, Robin dropped her gaze too. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’d have just flapped and made a twit of myself.”

Strike cleared his throat, stepping back a little again. “Well, I’d better, er...” He bent to pick up the bag of rubbish he’d dropped. “See you later?”

Robin coughed a little. “Not sure yet,” she said. “If I find anything out, I’ll pop back to write it into the file while it’s still fresh in my mind. Otherwise I might just go straight home.”

Strike nodded briskly. “Right, well, see you later in the week, then.”

“Yup. See you.”

Strike turned and walked away, willing his heart to settle down. _Don’t look back,_ he told himself firmly.

He managed to get all the way to the far gate before glancing over his shoulder. She’d gone, back to the office where she was temping for the foreseeable future.

Strike grunted at himself, irritated now. _Stupid fucker._ He thrust the bag into a nearby bin and stomped off in the direction of Denmark Street.

 


End file.
